A Zombie and A Greek God
by NoodlesandPie
Summary: "I'm Napoleon Bonaparte, come back from the dead to fight your ideals." Courfeyrac has a costume party, and Enjolras falls in love.


**Authors notes: ****Hi! So this piece was just to get back into the swing of things, and also happened to be my first exr fic! i'm a bit rusty, but i think this is good. Please tell me if there are any mistakes! *prays I've spelt all the names right* This was supposed to be a fic for halloween but since i only started writing it the day after and its now mid-november you can see that went badly. Also just to say if you check out my tumblr (nasty-little-pocketses) I am in fact taking prompts so yeah.**

**Warnings: Brief references to sex, alcohol, swearing**

**Word Count: 5367**

"I don't do costume parties."

"You do now. Get your ass out of bed, we're going shopping."

"I'm not _in_ bed, I'm working on a speech for next weeks rally, which is much more important than any-"

"I knew you wouldn't get that reference. I'll be at your door in fifteen!" Courfeyrac interrupts him, and hangs up, without giving Enjolras a chance to say anything else. Enjolras sighs, dragging the sound out from deep in his chest. He _really _doesn't want to go to Courfeyrac's party tonight. There will be drinking and dancing and noise and bad music, and someone somewhere will start a fight and _he'll_ be the one getting arrested, because its _always_ him, and Marius will probably be trying to suck Cosettes face off again, and oh _god_, they might go in _matching couples costumes_.

Enjolras feels like throwing up.

He makes himself another cup of coffee.

Courfeyrac barrels in twenty minutes later, holding a bagel that looks like its just _begging_ to shed crumbs all over Enjolras carpet. Courf is wearing a strange outfit, complete with these weird neckties he keeps picking up from god-knows-where. Enjolras stands there in his pyjama pants, trying not to shiver in the draft from the door Courfeyrac left open.

"Enjy-boy!" He grins, pulling him into a hug, even though its only been a few hours since they saw each other last.

"Hey. Where's Combeferre?"

"In the car, waiting for us." Courfeyrac is unreasonably cheerful for this early in the morning. "Come on! You've got to get an outfit and then you've got to help with the decorations. Of course we need to get Eponine sorted, because I'm not having her scare off the guests. You know what she wanted to go as? A werewolf. Funny, right? Imagine Eponine as a werewolf. She scares the crap out of me when she's not dressed up, imagine when she's making an actual effort to be terrifying."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and lets Courf ramble on as he goes into his bedroom, pulling a pair of jeans and a red hoodie from the wardrobe. He shrugs into his clothes, runs a hand through his hair, and follows Courfeyrac through the door, locking his apartment up behind him.

He listens distractedly to Courf's monologue, nodding and humming in all the right places, interjecting here and there to ask questions, and grumble about how many guests there are coming. Combeferre joins in as they pile into the backseat of the car, until they're arguing back and forth about the best way to dismantle capitalism. Don't ask Enjolras how they got onto that topic. He doesn't know.

"So where exactly are we going?" Enjolras almost fears the answer but he asks anyway.

"Well, neither you or 'Ferre have got _anything_ yet, and _you-" _Courfeyrac swivels around to fix an accusing glare on Enjolras. "-haven't even got a theme, so we're going to a costume place in town where I can get a discount, to try and get at least some ideas, if not a costume."

"Why can you get a discount? This is legal, right, Courf? Because if I get arrested one more time they might kick me out of university." Combeferre asks, glancing away from the road to look at Courfeyrac.

"Yeah, sure, completely legal, how could you doubt me so? I'm wounded, 'Ferre."

"I'm serious, Courf."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just know the girl who owns it. She's only about twenty, inherited the place from her parents, got less business sense than Enj here. So she decided to give me a discount."

"What, just like that?" Enjolras butts in, eyebrows rising in disbelief. He knows Courf and any story he tells has a hidden scandal, _somewhere_.

"Well, I mean, the fact that she's completely in love with my luscious ass doesn't hurt either."

Enjolras is the first to laugh, breaking into undignified snorts that he would deny until his deathbed. Courfeyrac is a close second, laughing mostly at Enjolras. Combeferre chuckles slightly, grinning over at Courf, his eyes warm.

Enjolras is pretty sure he's the only one who notices how Combeferre's hand grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white.

Enjolras isn't completely oblivious.

Enjolras blows air at the feather resting square between his eyes, the one attached to the rather ridiculous hat perched on his curls. He's been going cross eyed constantly for the last ten minutes, not being able to help it, and Combeferre has been watching, trying hard not to crack up. Enjolras hates him.

His hands are currently indisposed, as the girl Courf knows commands him to hold out his arms, gesturing wildly about measurements and pinning and colours. He doesn't really know why it's necessary, because he's already said he's not going as a pirate; he has a reputation, thank-you very much.

"Yeah! You have a bloodthirsty reputation! Perfect for Blackbeard, patriotic ruler of the high seas!" Courfeyrac had said.

Enjolras had spluttered about how he didn't have a _bloodthirsty _reputation, he was just very focused, and then about how there shouldn't be a hierarchy on something as neutral as the 'high seas', but Courf wasn't listening, digging around for an eye patch.

They had already tried on over five outfits, Courfeyrac changing the accessories until each costume was 'perfect', and only then was Enjolras allowed to decide if he wanted to wear it. He had been dressed in some of the weirdest costumes he's ever heard of, and that's just the ones he didn't immediately shoot down. Courf was going as Stalin. Except Stalin was now a stripper, in Courf's book. ("He's a revolutionary, even if his ideals were a little off, so it fits with our aesthetic. Don't give me that look Enj, we totally have an aesthetic. I have nipple tassels and everything.") Enjolras had to admit that would be funny, if only because it was wildly inappropriate, but why? Why do people put so much effort into these things?

Combeferre had let Courf have almost completely free reign, which Enjolras thought was a mistake, since he had been turned into a Michael-Jackson-and-Katniss-Everdeen-love-child. Combeferre didn't seem to mind, though.

"Enjolras?" Courf's face appears in front of him.

"Hm?"

"Do you think plum boots, or just matte black? Plum would go better with your outfit, but black looks more hard-core and bad-ass." Courf looks legitimately concerned.

"I don't care. I already told you, I'm not going as a pirate." Enjolras says stubbornly.

"Aw, but Enj, the outfit perfectly suits your hair, and plum looks good on you!"

"I said no. Costume parties are pointless, and reflect the flawed ideals of our consumerist society anyway. People dress up so they can act different, be different, and not get judged." Enjolras crosses his arms. He didn't want to mention that the frills on the sleeves were itchy. This was about his principles, not his personal comfort.

Courf's mouth drops open. He looks as if Enjolras has just produced a puppy, offered it to Courf and then promptly snapped its neck, and wow, isn't that nice imagery. The dress-up-shop-girl looks positively affronted. Combeferre raises his eyebrows, and that is condemnation in itself.

"What? It is."

He is met with silence. Combeferre has his head in his hands. Courf looks betrayed, even more so than he did when Enjolras told him that Santa wasn't real. Dress-up-shop-girl is slowly turning purple, and Enjolras is genuinely concerned she may be having a heart attack, when a deep, throaty laugh echoes inside the shop, one which reminds Enjolras of smoke and black coffee and every one night stand he's ever had, screaming into the headboard. His head snaps up.

"Really stuck you foot in it this time, haven't you, Apollo?" Grantaire emerges from behind a rack of fancy looking 19th Century costumes, wearing an old shirt and paint-stained jeans. His hands are similarly adorned, chalk under his nails and a charcoal smudge on his cheek. He wears a beanie, his hair windswept and wild beneath it, and his favourite leather jacket, or at least Enjolras assumes it is his favourite, as he never seems to take the damned thing off.

"Did you steal Christmas too?" His voice sounds rough around the edges, like he really has been screaming all night. Enjolras cuts that thought off right there.

"Personally, I think you should go for plum. Makes a nice change from red, but still sets your colouring off nicely. Also, your expression should give off the bad-ass vibe without the need for boots too, don't ya think?"

Courfeyrac glances at Enjolras, who is glaring so hard at Grantaire it's a wonder he hasn't combusted yet, and nods.

"I agree." Enjolras turns to Courf, betrayed. Whose side was he on?

"However," Enjolras gaze snaps right back to Grantaire. "You did just say you didn't want to be a pirate and I always take my clients opinions into account."

Enjolras bristles at the word client, but Grantaire either doesn't notice or doesn't care, as he carries on regardless.

"You could go as the Grinch, but that's a little hard to pull off. Or you could go as Elphaba, she was into her social justice shit, wasn't she? Or Thor! Yeah, that'd be hot, with the cape and everything. Or maybe the Hulk, since you have got a bit of a temper."

Enjolras doesn't know who any of those people are, and he suspects Grantaire knows that, so he elects to ignore his rambling. Courf looks as if Christmas has come early, so Enjolras decides to speak before he can.

"What are you doing here, Grantaire?" he says, just as Courf asks: "What is your obsession with turning him green?"

"Greens a nice neutral colour. Might calm him down for just one night." Grantaire winks at Courf, who grins back, and Enjolras sees Combeferre's eyes go a little tight around the edges.

But Enjolras doesn't have time to worry about that, because Grantaire's speaking again, drawling in fact, and Enjolras finds himself having to supress a shiver.

"What am I doing here? Same as you, I imagine. Buying Halloween stuff for the party tonight."

"What are you going as?" Courf practically squeaks, and a fond smile tugs at the edges of Combeferre's mouth, who has been watching the whole exchange with an amused expression.

Grantaire taps the side of his nose, a habit which Enjolras finds infuriating. "Now that would be telling. Kinda wish I'd thought of going as a pirate though. You could carry an entire bottle of rum about, all for yourself, say its part of the costume."

Enjolras sniffs disapprovingly, and Grantaire smiles wider than he has since he came in.

"Anyway, does this place sell liquid latex?" Grantaire asks, directing his question at dress-up-shop-girl. She nods stiffly, takes a small bottle of white liquid from the counter, and throws it at Grantaire. He catches it with surprising dexterity, slender fingers curving round the bottle, graceful in a way that Enjolras rarely associates with Grantaire.

"How much do I owe you?" Grantaire asks, seemingly unfazed by the girl's cold treatment of him.

The girl narrows her eyes at him. "I'll give it to you for free if you get out of my shop right now."

Grantaire looks confused for a moment, a look Enjolras never sees on his face, before realization dawns in Grantaire's eyes.

"Fuck. You're that girl I met at the bar last week."

The girl looks an odd mixture between embarrassed and furious. She keeps glancing at Courfeyrac, who seems to be enjoying the little exchange. "Shit. Um. Yeah. Sorry about that."

The girl doesn't respond, and Grantaire starts to back away.

"Um. I'll just go, then. Bye guys." Grantaire turns to leave, and the girl looks relieved, but then he pops his head back around the rack of clothes, his usual casual bravado back, staring straight at Enjolras.

"By the way, Apollo, nice hat you got there."

Enjolras flushes scarlet and yanks the offending article off his head, cheeks burning. Grantaire smirks, and his laughter lingers in the shop even as he doesn't.

And Enjolras would never thank him for it, but he has an idea.

The party is in full swing by the time he arrives. Joly and Bossuet are in the corner doing shots of Musichetta, dressed as two of the three musketeers. Enjolras hazards a guess that Musichetta is supposed to be the third, but she is currently only in a bra and black pants, Bossuet's tongue on her navel, so its hard to tell.

"Enjy! You're here!" Courfeyrac barrels into his side and throws an arm around his shoulder as he shouts in Enjolras' ear. "I love you! I love you so much, I really do, I just…" He hiccups, and doesn't seem inclined to carry on his sentence. Enjolras wonders how he got so drunk so fast. His costume is impressive, or it would be if he weren't wearing someone else's jeans over it. One of his nipple tassels has fell off.

Combeferre comes jogging over to them, clad only in his boxers, a artistically ripped up shirt, and his werewolf hands. Enjolras rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might pop out of their sockets. Courfeyrac grabs 'Ferre's shirt as soon as he is in range, and pulls him into the three-people hug he has created.

"I love you both so much!" he gushes, squishing their faces together. Enjolras makes a noise of protest he doesn't seem to hear. "You're my main guys. I love you both. Ugh. I know Enjolras cant get his head out of his ass, 'Ferre, but neither can you and I love you both anyway!"

Enjolras attempts to extract himself from the hug, and this Courfeyrac does notice, as he sticks his bottom lip out, and grabs his hand, Combeferre still under his arm, tugging him over to a table laden down with alcohol and little bowls of crisps. But mostly alcohol. Giggling, Courf pours him out a glass of whiskey, sloshing the liquid around slightly as his hand shakes.

"Drink!" Unceremoniously, Courf shoves the glass in Enjolras' waiting hands, smiling up at him with such a pure, if slightly unfocused expression, that Enjolras takes a sip. Courf smiles wider.

Eponine wanders over, a poor approximation of Marilyn Manson's usual makeup slathered onto her face. She barely seems drunk, even though she is carrying a half empty bottle of the most alcoholic drink in the house, taking regular sips.

"Bahorel has started a game of beer-pong in the other room. You guys coming?" Eponine says.

"Of course, 'Ponine! I love you!" Courf says, dragging 'Ferre away even as he tries to take a sip of punch, shouting about beer and friendship and love. Eponine sends such a dry look Enjolras' way he can't help but smile. His friends seem to have forgotten him, which doesn't bother him all that much, since they were so drunk he wasn't sure they would be able to remember their own names.

"Nice costume, by the way." Eponine says cooly, giving him the once-over, a spark in her eyes. Enjolras is never quite sure what to make of Eponine. She's so quiet it's unnerving sometimes. She's cold as ice one minute, warm as a winter fire the next.

"Thanks. Grantaire gave me the idea." She gives him a look he can't quite decipher.

"I'm sure that's not all he'd give you, if you asked." Then she smiled, sharp, wicked. "I'd better go make sure Bahorel doesn't blow anything up."

Then she turns, leaving Enjolras stranded by the table, a full glass of whiskey in his hand.

He finds Grantaire half an hour later, sat at a table with Marius, nursing a bottle of beer. Marius' eyes are bloodshot and red, and as Enjolras walks towards him, he throws himself towards Grantaire, sobbing into his shoulder. Enjolras almost drops his drink.

"I just, I love her so much…Have you seen her eyes?,,, And her hair, god, its like it was spun by the angels…. never been so in love…."

Grantaire blinks, looks down at Marius' head on his shoulder, and then blinks again.

"Um. Right. How much have you had to drink, Marius? I've never heard you so, um, vocal."

Enjolras sets his drink down on the table, and they both look up. Grantaire's eyes widen.

"You know Cosette is in the other room with Courf, don't you?" Enjolras says.

Marius' entire face changes. He jumps up, spilling his wine all over his shirt. Planting a sloppy kiss on Enjolras forehead, he flees the room, yelling Cosettes name. Who would have known? Marius was an emotional drunk.

Sitting down across from Grantaire, Enjolras tries to supress his laughter. He's not very successful, catching sight of Grantaire's rather shell-shocked expression. He bursts, clutching his sides dramatically. Grantaire follows not soon after, and their laughter builds until they are both almost hysterical.

They calm down eventually, and lapse into a comfortable silence. Enjolras is never sure what to say to Grantaire except when they're arguing, so he stays quiet. It's a unique sensation, for Enjolras, to not be able to find any words.

Grantaire is staring across at Enjolras like he's not sure he is entirely real, so Enjolras takes the opportunity to stare back. Grantaire's face looks like it's rotting. Enjolras _thinks_ its makeup, and that Grantaire's not actually taken a chainsaw to his face and then died, buts it's so realistic he finds himself doubting that. His eyes are blackened and sunken in looking, his cheekbones pronounced, his brows made angry looking. His irises are a disturbing grey colour, like the storm that's so often in them has been leached out. The skin around his bones looks bruised, the rest taking on a grey pallor, making him seem emaciated, like he's dying. Or already dead. He is dressed in what looks like the naval uniform from the 19th Century, maybe the 18th, ripped up and dirty, only held together by the many medals that adorn his chest. The bloodstains on his chest are almost unnoticeable against the red of his jacket. All in all, it's a far cry from his usual scruffy attire.

"I like your costume. What are you supposed to be, a zombie?" Enjolras asks.

"It's me on a bad hangover. Only joking, no, I'm Napoleon Bonaparte, back from the dead to fight your ideals."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. You think Napoleon wouldn't put that much effort into proving you wrong. I know I would." Grantaire grins at him over the top of his bottle, taking a sip. Enjolras is fairly certain he's being mocked.

"You know Bonaparte died of stomach cancer, right? He wouldn't have had so many wounds on his face. He wouldn't have had any." Enjolras shoots right back, already smiling in anticipation of his answer.

"He sustained these injuries while fighting off all the French monarchy in the race for your head. They want to guillotine you." Grantaire says, completely dead-pan.

Enjolras laughs, loudly. Grantaire looks surprised.

"Seriously though, how did you get the cuts to look so real?"

"I'm studying art full time. I know a fair few makeup artists. They helped me out a little."

"A little?"

"Hey, are you doubting my makeup skills, here, Apollo?"

Enjolras laughs, takes a swig of his whiskey.

"Anyway, enough about my costume, what are you, some kind of Greek?" Grantaire's eyes are running over him like fingers, taking in the way Enjolras has let his hair out of its tie, sending it tumbling down over his shoulders, the way his already golden head is adorned with a wreath of shining leaves, how the white toga he wears is pulled up around the waist by a golden sash.

"I'm Apollo."

Grantaire's mouth twitches. His expression is tortured, and Enjolras wonders why.

"You really are a god, then." His voice is hoarse, and he coughs. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes sparkle with something, and Enjolras doesn't think its joy.

"I was never a god, Grantaire." Enjolras speaks slowly, each syllable pronounced carefully. Grantaire looks down at the table, into his beer, anywhere but Enjolras' eyes. Then he shakes his head, seems to pull himself out of his stupor.

"You know Apollo is naked in most of those statues. Your interpretation of him isn't very accurate."

Enjolras takes it as the joke it was obviously meant to be, tilting his head back and laughing. He doesn't want to disturb the tenuous peace him and Grantaire have achieved in this one conversation. Enjolras doesn't know if it's the whiskey or the party or the way Grantaire doesn't quite look like himself, and not just because of the makeup, but the sparks Grantaire is setting off inside him are very different than the ones he usually feels, the one that set fire to his ideas and words as he spits them out, the ones that burn Grantaire, burn Enjolras.

"I'm not drunk enough for this conversation, you know." Grantaire says, and Enjolras frowns slightly.

"Are you cutting back tonight? You're not that drunk." Enjolras' voice is almost hopeful, and he can see Grantaire's eyes harden slightly, even through the contacts.

"Only just got here. Nights still young, though. What'd'ya say? Fancy a drink with me?" Enjolras' head tilts at the edge in his voice, like he's already preparing himself for a refusal, the hard challenge in his eyes. He doesn't think Enjolras will do it.

"Okay." Enjolras says, because he's a stubborn arsehole who never backs down from a fight, especially ones involving Grantaire.

Its later that night, and Enjolras has had more alcohol in three hours than he thinks he has had in his entire life. Grantaire is equally smashed, having matched every one of Enjolras' drinks with two of his own, downing vodka like water. Enjolras is pretty sure it's more like fire, but he doesn't mention that, because Grantaire almost wet himself laughing when Enjolras had choked on his first shot. And his second.

And its funny, because Enjolras' entire world has gone blurry around the edges, and all that he can see clearly is this man who looks like he's dead, but Enjolras has never felt more alive. Grantaire puts a hand on Enjolras knee as he reaches over him to get more beer, and his pulse hammers and his heart sings.

Eponine had come over earlier, told them that the vodka had run out, a rather worryingly manic expression on her face, and sat with them, drinking. Until she saw Marius with Cosette, and then she went to find Montparnasse, taking the bottle of vodka with her. Enjolras is too drunk to be worried, and Grantaire is much the same. He leans over, gazing at Enjolras, laughing at nothing. Enjolras laughs with him.

Grantaire's eyes crinkle around the edges as he laughs, and the breath is knocked out of Enjolras, fireworks going off behind his eyes.

"Wha' you afraid of, R? Most in all the world?" Enjolras blurts out, trying to distract himself from the explosions in his skull, from the way the world is all melting together like it's an abstract painting. The words slip out all on their own, and Enjolras is almost too drunk to notice and much too drunk to care.

Grantaire grins wide, like a shark.

"'Ponine."

"Be serious." Enjolras slurs, waving his beer around like a talisman, like a wand. Grantaire smiles drunkenly, almost vacant, and reaches over to still Enjolras' waving.

He keeps his hand on Enjolras arm, and he has never shined so brightly.

"Nothing scares me, Apollo."

"That means you believe in nothin', then." The smile on Grantaire's face falters, and his eyes get a little more clear. _Why did I say that? Why am I talking about this?_ Enjolras thinks, numbly. _Because you are a fucking idiot_, another part of his brain supplies.

"What?" Grantaire asks, soft and tense, and if Enjolras didn't know better, hesitant.

"Tha's what ma mam used to say." Enjolras breathes in Grantaire's direction, wine soaked air blowing across his nose and face, and, really, why is Enjolras still speaking? "If you're not scared of anythin', you don't believe in anythin' either. Jus' the way 'tis."

Grantaire looks down, pointedly avoiding his eyes, and he sounds surprisingly sober when he speaks again.

"Well, I think we've already established that I'm a good for nothing fool who doesn't believe in anything, haven't we?" He smiles wryly, like it's a joke, but Enjolras really does know Grantaire better by now, even if no one, not even Grantaire, believes him when he says that. Despite the bitter edge to his voice, and the mocking smile, Grantaire looks sad, and Enjolras hates it when Grantaire looks sad.

"Grantaire, I-" And Enjolras is about to say something profound and meaningful and intense, he really is, but he forgets it the moment he vomits over Grantaire's shoes.

Enjolras can't remember how he got to be shuffling through the dark backstreets of Paris, but he's being held up only by Grantaire, his hand round his waist, his murmured curse words that make Enjolras feel better, rather than worse. His head feels like it's melting, like someone's blown holes in his skull, but he's too dead to feel the pain, only a shadow of where they were.

He tries to think back. He's thinks Grantaire told Courfeyrac that he was taking Enjolras home, something about Enjolras being drunk, but that cant be true. Courf had taken one look at them both and laughed so hard and for so long, Grantaire just left after five minutes. Enjolras tries to remember further back. He remembers the taste of acid in his mouth, the burning in his throat, so strong it made his eyes water. He remembers Bousset coming over and clapping him on the back, saying something about him finally becoming a man, and that sentence confuses Enjolras. He decides to ask Grantaire about it.

"'M twenty-three. 'bin a man fo' ages." He slurs, but it takes too much effort to get his mouth to co-operate, so he gives up. Grantaire completely ignores him anyway, counting off turnings as they walk. Well, stumble, in Enjolras' case, tugged along insistently by Grantaire, when all he really wants to do is sleep.

Grantaire turns sharply, and Enjolras trips over his own feet, clutching at him, groaning. Grantaire breaks off with the tirade of curse words that have been flowing freely for the past ten minutes. He glances down at Enjolras, and his face seems to spasm. His voice is quiet when he speaks, but that's okay, because he is saying nice things to Enjolras, things that he doesn't remember or even properly process, but they run through him and they make Enjolras feel _nice._

"Nice…" Enjolras breathes out, and he thinks Grantaire might be the most beautiful man he's ever seen, as he looks down at him, his face cast into shadow under the streetlights, his body warm against Enjolras, his voice soft and rumbling. Enjolras has the strange urge to run his tongue over the exposed collarbone he can see.

"Yeah. Nice. Lets get you inside." Grantaire coaxes him through his front door. Enjolras hadn't even recognised his own street. The room feels kind of distant, muffled, like Enjolras is looking at someone else's house that looks a lot like his own. All he can focus on is the feeling at Grantaire's side against him, the smell of coffee and cigarettes underlying the sharp bite of vodka in the air. Enjolras almost falls twice, and becomes so enamoured with the coach at one point he stops completely, forcing Grantaire to physically pick him up and carry him to his bedroom. Enjolras thinks there's a joke in there somewhere, but Grantaire was always better at jokes than him, and he doesn't seem to be in a joking mood.

Eventually, they get to Enjolras' room, golden and warm in the streetlights. Grantaire sets him down on the bed, gently, pulling the covers back with the utmost care. He reaches down to pull Enjolras' shoes off, fumbling for a few minutes with the complicated straps of his sandals. Then there's warmth as the covers are pulled over him, soft and clean. It makes Enjolras feel all the dirtier, standing out like a smear of mud on the clean white cotton. But Grantaire pulls the covers all the way up to his chin, smoothing them down. It makes Enjolras feel funny, like he's been punched in the throat.

So when Grantaire turns to leave, he can't stop himself from reaching out, trying to grab his wrist. His aims off, and he manages to latch on to Grantaire's fingers, only a centimetre away from holding his hand. There's a hitch in Grantaire's breathing.

"Stay with me." And if Enjolras wasn't so drunk he'd want to take the words and stuff them back in his mouth almost as soon as he said them, but he is drunk, and they roll off his tongue like they've been fighting to get out all along.

Grantaire looks like Enjolras has wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed, his eyes popping in their sockets, his face flushed. He stops breathing. Seeming to recover slightly, he opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"Please?" Enjolras asks, and Grantaire lets out a sort of whimper, looking pained.

"I will, if you want me to." Grantaire sits down on the edge of the bed, looking down at their joined hands as if he can't believe they're attached to their bodies.

Enjolras smiles, lazily, already halfway to sleep. The alcohol sloshing around his brain pulls him under with one final tug.

The last sensation Enjolras is aware of is fingers softly carding through his hair.

When Enjolras wakes up the next morning, he is completely alone.

There's a knock at his door three days later. Four short taps.

Enjolras drags himself out of bed. He doesn't usually sleep in this late, but he had stayed up until six am writing a paper on intersectionality in the fight against classism. It's eleven in the morning. He stops for a minute in front of the mirror, attempting to work out the tangles in his hair. Eventually, he gives up, sighing, yanking open his bedroom door. The knocks at the door are now more insistent, almost frantic. Enjolras starts to hurry, nearly jogging over to the door.

Grantaire is on the other side, his hair mussed, his eyes wild. There is a flush rising on his face, his lips wet with wine, his hands shaking.

When he spoke, his voice was desperate, higher than usual. "Enjolras." He pauses, takes a deep breath in, lets it out.

"I'm scared of spiders, of the hole in the ozone layer, of drinking myself to death, of dying alone, of being alone, I'm scared of clowns and heights and needles, but most of all I'm scared of you! I'm scared of you dying for your causes, I'm scared your causes are not going to be worth it. I'm scared of my feelings when it comes to you. I'm scared of what your feelings are! I'm just scared, Enjolras!" He paused, his chest heaving, yanking in breath after breath, his entire frame shaking. "So if I'm scared for you, of you, does that mean I believe in you? Because I do believe in you, Enjolras. That's all I do believe in."

Enjolras stares at him, taking in the fading fervour in his eyes. Grantaire begins to mumble something about how he just wanted to let Enjolras know, he should probably go, and Enjolras reaches forward and pulls Grantaire towards him, hand on his wrist.

"Uh." Grantaire says, fluttering his hand about, not sure where to put it.

"What I said at the party-"

"Um. Its okay. You were kind of right." Grantaire wriggles against his hold. Enjolras raises an eyebrow and Grantaire blushes a shade of scarlet that Enjolras wants to look at forever, right there, painted on Grantaire's cheeks. So he surges forward and kisses him, chastely.

An hour later, and Grantaire's cheeks are still flushed. Enjolras thinks he has never been happier.

**Thanks for reading! It would be real nice if you could leave a review, favourite, follow, whatever. As always, anyone who does gets free virtual hugs.**


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